Finished
by DreaBean
Summary: A girl in an insane asylum has a fantastic story to tell.  PWONESHOT.  Kind of.  T for one swear.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Finished  
**Author: **'Drea  
**Fandom: **Peter Pan (book/movies, either or all)  
**Pairing: **Peter/Wendy if you turn your head sideways and squint.  
**Summary: **A girl locked away in an insane asylum has a fantastic story to tell...  
**Series: **Noo...but if people like it, I might write a few more chapters.  
**Disclaimer: **I don't own Peter Pan, JMBarrie and several other people do. I do own Liz though. Liz Wendy though...so maybe I don't own her.  
**Notes: **This came to me on the bus to ZooMass. I wrote it during a lull in class. Enjoy!

* * *

Finished

Do you know why I'm here? I know you said you wanted to document my story, but really, do you have any idea why I'm trapped inside this room with its sickly white padded walls? Oh, no, I'm not mistreated, people are nice here, and while the food has much to be desired, I'm comfortable.

How long have I been here?

About four years. Am I ever going to leave?

Maybe.

So you want to know why I'm here? Fine. I'll give you some background information and then...well, you decide for yourself how crazy I am.

How much do you know about Time, Mr. Reporter? Some people say time is Linear, but in my experience, time is very, very, circular. At least...in the ways I travel. You see, there's this familiar children's story. There's a boy and a girl, and the girl leaves the boy. The boy comes back only to find the girl is now a woman and takes her daughter instead.

Yes, Mr Reporter. The story of Peter Pan. The story never changes, there is always a Captain James Hook, always a Tinkerbell, always a Peter Pan. But most of all there is always a Wendy. Time flows in a circle. Peter Pan meets his Wendy, be her name Jessica, Angela, Stephanie or Liz. She goes with him to Never Never Land and then leaves him behind. This is where the story changes.

He finds her again, all grown up and then he too grows. He never leaves Never Land after that. Peter kills Hook only to become him later in life. Another boy takes Peter's place, never remembering he wasn't the Pan.

I was one such girl, Mr. Reporter.

No, wait! Don't leave, please. I know I sound crazy, I'm in an insane asylum! I'm supposed to be crazy. Please. No one ever talks to me. Please...?

Thank you. It...started when I was seven. I didn't have many friends growing up, or...any, really. And I buried myself in books...and stories...and later...Him. I was seven, as I said, and one night I fell asleep and I dreamt. I dreamt that a little boy came and took me away to Never Land.

I dreamt that I met seven little flying boys, all my age or younger. I dreamt that I became their mother, and He their father. And in the morning I woke in my own bed, a smudge of dirt on my face.

No, before you ask. The dirt hadn't been there previously.

The next night I dreamt He took me to see the Mermaids, the Indians and a terrifying Black Castle where a crocodile lived and breathed and _ticked. _I began to believe. I was seven, young, naive, starved for friendship and attention.

He and I...we danced amongst the Fairies, even though His Tinkerbell didn't like me. I didn't understand why I until I understood Time. Tinkerbell watched as He brought Himself a girl every time and watched as they slowly broke Him in two.

The first time I met James Hook, I was ten. The first thing he ever said to me was how well I'd grown up. The Captain had noticed...but He didn't. I was slowly growing up right under His nose.

I was ten year old in body but seven year old in heart. It began to show outside of my nightly adventures with Him and His boys. The children I went to school with began to notice I had no friends, all I did was read or write, they began to see me as weakling, someone they could pick on easily.

And they could. I had no knowledge on how to defend myself from words. I became 'the freak,' or 'the fat girl'. Although I was neither of the two by any stretch of the imagination. Their words were calculated to hurt. They did hurt.

It was all because I was stuck in the mentality of a child and I watched as my body grew. His never did, neither did the other boys. Nor the Captains, if I remember correctly.

I never wanted to grow up. But even He had no power over my daily world. Slowly, my days began changing my nights. The things that once delighted me, I now found tedious or boring. Cleaning up after a bunch of constantly dirty boys grew wearying and tiresome.

Constant fighting with the Captain only worried me. I found myself wanting more.

I found that more in other different adventure stories. For a while, I relayed them to His boys and He. But boys had no head to sit and _listen _to adventure, they wanted to _live _it.

Once I lost my audience, I stopped going off with them to pester the Indians or taunt the Captain from the clouds. I didn't care for violence or crocodiles.

And then...one night, I started a new book at home in my bedroom. As always, He came to me, through the window, I assumed even though my eyes never could quite catch where Wall and He met and ended. _Are you ready, Lizzie? _He said to me. I told him I wanted to finish my book. _When you're done! _He said. So I told him after I finished my book I was going to bed.

He left me with a promise. He snatched the book from my fingers and pulled me to my feet. He pressed our foreheads together. _Promise not to forget me Lizzie? Lost in your stories, will you still tell mine? _I nodded, and He kissed me, achingly gentle, lips to lips, cheeks to cheeks.

When He pulled away there was a severity to His expression that took my breath away. At twelve, it startled me with its calm maturity. _I'll come back,_ He whispered to me.

But He didn't.

I finished that book, and many others, but He still didn't return to me.

The time came and I turned thirteen. With the new boost to my age, so went my fond memories.

I forgot, Mr. Reporter. I forgot Him.

I grew up, and up and up and up. I turned eighteen, and with it the universe that had taken my memories returned them to me. It cause corrected my unknown sorrow, and left me shaking.

I remembered. Oh God, I _fucking _remembered. And because of that...

I dreamt.

He appeared like always, melding with wall and air, and moonlight, materializing through the window like a silent shadow. _Come with me, _He whispered, hushed, from the darkness of my room.

I remembered with a startled gross clarity His young boyish voice. That was not the voice I heard then that night.

He stepped into the light, His body subtly changed. He was perhaps thirteen now, but in His eyes...in them was my little flying boy.

I told Him I couldn't, I wasn't that girl anymore. I turned on my lamp and watch as shock bled into His features.

I know I told Him sorry. I apologized for growing up, and forgetting Him. I watched silently as tears spilled down His dirty cheeks.

I tried to get up, to embrace Him, but He backed away from me. _No! _He shouted. _I didn't believe Hook when he told me! He said you'd be gone when I returned!_

"I couldn't help it."

_You're grown up!_

I managed to get to my feet and I crossed the room in two long strides, kneeling at His feet. "No," I whispered to His knees. "Look at me, and tell me what you see."

Slowly the anger bled out of His features. The fingers of His hands uncurled from their tight fists. He brushed a hand across my cheek.

_I see, _He whispered, _a girl who became a woman._

I covered His fingers with mine. "I missed you."

He pulled away gently. _You can't miss someone you never remembered._

I tried to explain, tried to tell Him I waited, but even though I waited I couldn't stop time from aging my body. I told Him I was always going to be a child inside because of my time spent with Him. He smiled at that, backing away slowly. He reached down to my desk and found a small picture I'd left there.

_This is you? _He asked me, looking at the photograph something akin to awe. I nodded. _This is who you've become, _He decided. _This is who you became because you didn't need me anymore._

"No!" I cried, covering my mouth with something like horror, or hysterics. "I always need you. I don't know why I forgot, I don't know why I remember now, I don't know!"

He smiled again, still backing up slowly. _I killed Hook._

I knew.

_He died telling me I was a deficient little boy. Am I deficient?_

"Of course not!" I told Him indignantly. "Why would you think such a thing?"

He was staring down at the picture He held loosely in His hand. _You left me,_ He said simply. _I hope you enjoyed your book._

And then He was gone, in the moment between one breath and the next, the air shimmered and I woke, on the floor in the morning. Frantically, I checked my desk for the picture He'd had in His hand. The picture was gone.

I see you're writing avidly now, Mr. Reporter. Whether or not it's to write a story about the crazy twenty five year old in the asylum or a report for my doctors, I guess I'll never–what? How did I end up here?

I cracked. I told a friend, I thought I could trust her, but even after all this time I still had that naivety left inside me. She told my mother, my mother told my father and they brought me to a psychiatric testing. Although my IQ was abnormally high, I had the common sense of a seven year old girl.

In many ways I am still the girl child He left behind. I've been here ever since.

The picture? It was of me, sitting on a rock by a waterfall. I was laughing. There were small children running around where I was, playing in the sand, and jumping in the water. It was taken when I was sixteen.

Why? Why what, Mr. Reporter? Oh. I left...well, it so stupid now, so petty and juvenile, and fitting for a seven year old. I just wanted to finish my book.

Time? Ahh...yes, I did mention time. You see...He kills Hook only to become Hook later. Tinkerbell finds another boy, and that boy becomes another Peter Pan. That is why Tinkerbell hates all of the girls He brings. Because she knows that one day she'll break Him. He will grow. And age.

And finally, be slain by the person He had been once so very long ago.

And I?

I...I just wanted to finish my book.

- The End -

If you liked it, I may write a second part so instead of a oneshot, it'll be a twoshot.

Yes?

'Drea!


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **Finished  
**Part:** 2/?  
**Summary: **Liz thinks she's only dreaming. Is she?  
**Notes: Okay guys, this is because everyone seemed to really want a second part. I wasn't planning on really continuing it, and now suddenly it's turned into an epic. This chapters for Kaya because she's awesome. (Grin)  
Disclaimer: **All are owned by JMBarrie aka God.  
**Rating: **PG13 for now.  
**Warning:** I make a slightly less than affectionate poke at the psychiatry industry. Anyone going into this field shouldn't be offended, I'm just using some hidden short comings to further my characters. Hee.

* * *

It was dark and quiet in the asylum at night. The shouts and screams that coated the concrete walls were silent and asleep. She shivered and hunched into her corner, waiting for dawn to break over the barred horizon and for the torment around her to begin again.

She eyed the cot across from her distrustfully, its creaking joints and muttering braces mocking her in solidarity. She curled tighter into her corner, hiding her dirty head into her white clad knees. A single cricket from outside her broken window began to squeak, calling its mournful cry into the darkness

A footstep echoed along the empty hallway outside her door. The footsteps grew louder as they crossed her threshold and receded around the corner and away. She let out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The cricket fell silent, and she whimpered at the loss. "Please..." she whispered to it, not daring to raise her voice any louder. "Please..."

Silence. A creak and then: "Please what?"

She froze. Lank blonde hair fell across wild greenish grey eyes, hiding their intensity and terror. The girl began to shake her head, the shakes descended from her brow down over her gowned chest, belly and finally her knees and legs. "No," she said softly, "no, no, no..." she chanted under her breath and the owner of the opposing voice sighed irritably.

"I'm really here, I'm real, and I've come to take you away." It was the bored tone that made her head snap up, searching for his form in the dark corners of her cell. A slight of movement in one corner was retaliated by a bigger one in another. It went in a circle until a hand brushed the top of her head. She bit back a shriek, staring up at her tormenter and benefactor.

"If you're really here," she whispered, her voice equal parts venomous and terrified, "then you wouldn't come to take me back." A quizzical silence followed, and while the owner of the voice did not reply, his hand tightened heavily on her head. "You're supposed to hate me."

There was another brief moment of silence, this one filled with tension of unspoken promises, words and pleas, and finally, after an eternity, He dropped down to one knee and His stony face filled her frantic vision. "I do."

A small whimper filled the silence and if she'd been looking, she would have seen the pity and the fear that crossed His face at the sound of her torment. His hand reached out as though to touch her face, but with a sneer aimed obviously at Himself, He aborted the gesture and locked His fingers in her hair. "Then leave me here," she said evenly, her voice shaking. "It's no more than I deserve."

The hand that had been fisted in her hair gentled considerably. "I would not wish this even on my worst enemy," He said evenly, tugging lightly on her locks until she looked at Him again. "Come with me." He stood and she followed Him, both by reasoning and the fact that His hand was still wrapped in her hair. "The boys miss you."

"But not you?" The words were spoken softly, into her cupped hands, but He heard them anyway. She lifted one hand slowly and untangled His fingers from her and stepped away from him, standing on her own, and He was surprised to see her stance firm and steady. Her eyes showed none of the fear from only moments before, and for a minute, He could imagine she was facing off Hook, and not Him.

Silence fell again and slowly, as the tension between them lengthened and grew, she lost her edge and wobbled dangerously. In a flash He caught her in His arms, cradling her close. "You are still one of mine, Liz," He reminded her softly. He leaned down over her ear. "You've always been mine."

"I haven't been yours in a very long time, Peter Pan," she whispered back, her lips moving against the skin of His neck in a parody of a kiss. "If you are truly here to take me home," she trailed off slightly and He could not help but grin at her usage of the word 'home', "then do it."

Dawn broke in silver and pink over the horizon, and an orderly cheerfully opened the door to Lizabeth Greene's cell. The tray he'd been holding crashed to the floor, forgotten as the boy and the girl in his arms began to fade. The shocked man watched silently as reality distorted around their figures and the darkness that caught at the corners of the room wrapped around the couple and swallowed them whole. In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the alarm sounded, signaling an inmate had escaped.

They'd never find her.

* * *

When Liz next woke she opened her eyes to slatted boards above her, and the smell of a merrily burning fire somewhere in the vicinity. She rolled over mumbling, "Kel, did Rosie light the rec room on fire again?"

A childish giggle answered her. "Whose Rosie?" it asked and she shot straight up in bed, wincing as she did so. "Are you all right, Lizzie?" She pressed the heel of her hand to her left temple and turned her head to once side, trying to focus her wavering eye sight.

When her vision cleared she noticed the small boy sitting on the floor beside her bed. He had been sharpening arrows with a stone knife but he quickly stood, unfolding his legs to be surprising tall, as he felt her head for a temperature. "I should tell the Pan you're awake."

"I don't think he'll care..." she whispered, but she was talking to air. The boy had vanished, either out the door or the window, and Liz whimpered to herself, laying back and throwing one arm over her eyes.

"Imp says you're awake." A thin finger prodded her in the side and she lolled her head in the direction it came from. In the mid-afternoon light, Peter Pan looked no more dangerous than the boy who watched over her, had. Although his face was defined, and the lines in it were not necessarily laugh lines, his eyes glittered with boyish delight, and his smile was wide. "Are you still pretending I don't exist?"

Her lips twisted. "I wasn't aware I had to pretend." She watched as the smile faded from his face, and the dangerous glint that she had seen in the asylum returned to his sparkling eyes. She sat up quickly, ignoring the sudden sharp pain. "Fuck, Peter, I didn't mean..."

He shook his head sharply. "Yes, you did." He stood, suddenly towering over her. She shrank back against the bed. He wheeled away angrily. "When are you going to figure out that I'm real?" he bit out, his voice tired. "And when," he asked as an afterthought, "are you going to realize I'm not going to hurt you?"

There was a moment of pause where he thought she wasn't going to answer. When she did, her voice was pathetically tired and sad. "I've spent the last four years of my life in a place where they pumped me full of drugs and told me you weren't real. The doctors would tell me that I made you up in an effort to conceal some tragic event in my past. Rape, violence in the home, bullying at school." She coughed out a laugh and he finally turned to face her, watching as she covered her eyes with one hand again. "After a few sessions with the test drugs, I started to believe it."

He ventured forward again, kneeling by her bedside. "I don't know what some of that is," he admitted quietly. "But none of it sounds like something I'd do."

Her other hand floated down and landed gently on his hair, just like before, he realized with a painful lurch. Mother would sit in her rocking chair and Father sat at her feet, her hand buried in his hair, stroking the locks out of the knots with effortless fingers. His breathing hitched, but she didn't notice. "Not the Peter I remember," she agreed. Her fingers began a short staccato against his head, and he gently leaned into her ministrations.

"I couldn't hurt you if I tried!" he said indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest in a moment of pure juvenile respite.

Her fingers stilled for a moment. "You don't have to try," she said softly. He was quiet, and finally in lieu of responding, he nudged his head under her hand. She began the short strokes again, sighing heavily. "What must you think of me?" she wondered rhetorically, twining his short locks around her fingers.

Peter, though often still young in mind, was old enough to realize that her spoken question was not a safe one to answer. Instead, he inched closer to her, and draped an arm around her middle, giving her a half sort of one armed hug. She paused again, before adjusting to the new situation. "How old are you, Lizzie?" he asked instead.

She snorted. "Twenty four, or five, I should suspect." She turned her head in his direction again. "You look to be about eighteen."

"Does that mean anything important?" he asked, drawing pictures in the sheets by her hip with his grubby fingers.

Removing her hand from over her eyes, she caught his wandering hand in her free one and held it loosely in hers, rescuing the white sheets. Her laugh caught them both by surprise. "It means I'm still old enough to rob the cradle with you, darling."

He warmed considerably, but tried to scowl at her. "Why would I steal babies?" he asked crossly. "I have enough of my own."

"That's not what the phrase means." She paused for a minute, gathering her thoughts. "Robbing the cradle is a term used to talk about two people who have a large age gap between the two while being in a loving relationship." She frowned slightly. "Although it doesn't have to be loving. Robbing the cradle would have been me with H–no, that's pedophilia..." she trailed off, her voice growing fainter.

"You're tired, Lizzie," he whispered, extracting his arm from around her middle. "You should rest some more before getting out and about."

She made a noise of agreement, sliding her fingers out of his hair and trailing lightly down his face. "You're a good boy, Peter," she murmured, already half asleep. "Thank you."

Her hand fell limply to one side and he tucked it up beside her, pulling the covers up to her chin like she used to do to him. He leaned down and laid his lips over her forehead. "I don't hate you, Liz," he whispered to her warm skin. "I lied."

Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn't wake. She rolled over, curling up and sleeping deeply and evenly for the first time since she turned eighteen. Peter watched over her until sleep dragged as his limbs and he fell into slumber after her.

-

Birds chirped happily outside her window until a red velvet pillow flew out the window at them. With several ungainly squawks, the birds departed and Liz sighed in contentment. Her eyes flew open. There were never any birds outside her cell, and the bars should have stopped the pillow...and since when had her pillows been _red velvet_?

She sat up, noting the lack of pain in her head or other extremities. Peter no longer sat beside her and there were no children to step on as she rolled gracefully out of bed. A dress made of deerskin and muslin lay neatly over a chair. Beside that, she noticed with delight was a steaming tub of hot water.

She stripped herself of the white hospital gown and slid gratefully into the water, immediately dunking her head under the clean fresh liquid. She scrubbed at her hair with the soap that was left for her in a small dish, washing herself vigorously, wanting nothing more than to be clean.

She found it ironic on a certain level that her bath time was the time when Peter came into the check on her. Although she was fairly certain it was on accident, and that she was probably blushing, there was no way her cheeks could possibly be as pink as his. "Sorry," he managed, "I'll just...over there...wait." He stabbed a finger in the direction of the door uncertainly.

Liz expected to be mortified, but instead, laughter bubbled under the surface of her skin, and burst forth in wave after healing wave. She laughed until her sides hurt and Peter looked vaguely put out. She lifted a hand and waved it. "You can stay," she said when she could breathe again. "I don't mind."

Peter, after a moment of deliberation, sat on the bed, as far away from where she sat in the tub as he could get without being quite out of reach. "Are you feeling better?" he asked politely.

She nodded. "Less tired. And much better now that I'm getting clean." She beamed at him. "You're a brilliant boy, Peter, if this was your idea."

He shrugged, embarrassed by her praise. "It was nothing," he mumbled, avoiding her eyes. "Do you feel well enough to go outside?" There was a flurry of splashes instead of an answer. "Lizzie?" he asked, turning his head.

"Don't look up, I'm getting out." He dropped his head swiftly and she laughed again. "I haven't been outside in four years, Peter. I could be dying and I'd feel well enough to be out in the sunlight again." He heard the rustling and figured accurately that she was putting on the dress. "Okay, I'm decent."

The dress was slightly too short on her, brushing the very tops of her knees, instead of her calves like it was meant. The top of the dress was strained over her chest and shoulders, dipping a little too low in the front. He stared at her incredulously. "That's decent?" he choked out, wondering why the girls in the Indian tribe didn't dress that way.

She looked down and shrugged. "I've worn worse. If you don't mind waiting, and if you give me a pair of men's trousers I could mend them with my old sewing kit." She frowned again suddenly, looking down. "If you still have it."

He nodded without replying, and rustled around in the chest at the foot of the bed. He tossed her an old pair of his muslin pants, whirling around when she bent to put them on. "The women from the Indian Tribe are absolutely nothing like you," he muttered to himself, pitching himself low enough so she wouldn't hear.

She heard anyway. Liz laughed at him delightedly. "I take that as a complement. These don't need too much tailoring. Good." There was more rustling and the quick shearing noise of the small silver scissors in the box. "You can turn around again," she said, still bent over her work.

She had replaced the white gown over her shoulders, covering her chest and most her waist, showing that the pants he'd given her dropped down to the floor, just barely covering her dainty feet. She continued to sew. "This should be more to both of our likings," she mused. He watched her sew.

"Liz?" he asked, his voice seriously and although her needlework paused, she didn't stop what she was doing.

"Yes, Peter?" Liz responded, her voice just as grave, reacting just as badly to his tone as to his referral of her as Liz and not Lizzie.

"Did you ever pretend with us?"

Her fingers stopped. She looked up, blowing her wet hair out of her face. "Of course I did, darling. I pretended every day with you. It wasn't until I got older that pretending just...wasn't enough anymore."

"Is that..." he began, trailing off. She waited expectantly, her eyes honest. He tried again. "Is that what the books gave you?"

Liz's grey-green eyes slid shut, covering an emotion Peter couldn't decipher. "Oh Peter..." she said softly, her eyes opening. "Books could never, ever, compare with what you gave me. Turn around for a moment." He did and the rustling resumed. Instead of telling him to turn back, she quickly stepped across the dirt floor and wrapped her arms about his waist from behind. "I love to read," she said into the strong muscles in his back. "I loved that the boys used to listen to my stories. But just like stories weren't enough adventure for them, pretending wasn't enough life for me."

"What about now?" Peter asked, trying desperately not to cry. He covered her arms with his, drawing her closer to his back. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "Will pretending be enough now?"

At first, her arms only tightened. He held her ever closer, until he wasn't sure where he began and Liz ended. Then she spoke, her voice clear and soft. "Is that what we're doing?" Peter froze. "This doesn't feel like pretending to me. This feels real. If this is pretending, Peter Pan, then let go of my arms and walk out that door."

He stiffened even further, waiting for her to continue to speak. She did not, only breathed evenly against his back. A moment, two moments, three moments and he didn't move. "Liz..." he said to the air.

Peter felt her smile against his shoulder blade. "Right now, this will be enough for me." She pulled away from him and he turned, staring. "Oh now what's wrong with how I'm dressed?" The inch of midriff displayed from the shorn dress peeked and vanished when she moved, and Peter could only shake his head and laugh.

* * *

Boys are silly creatures, don't you agree? I'll definitely continuing this! Thanks Kaya - I'll talk about the Pan/Hook switch next chapter. Promise. If I don't you can give me the frowning of a life time, okay??

Cheers!

'Drea


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Finished  
Part: 3/3  
Author: 'Drea  
Summary: The last installment. Liz doesn't realize she can't stop Time.  
Rating: PG-13

* * *

The sunlight filtered through the trees, creating dancing patterns on the skin of her face, and catching in the gold of her hair. Peter stood in the doorway of the hut, watching as she spun in a slow circle, her arms outstretched as though to catch the beams ofsparkling light. 

Liz turned back to him, a wide smile splitting her face. "Oh Peter, it's just as wonderful as I remembered."

"And here, I thought you forgot." Peter immediately regretted his words as the joy on her face slowly bled away to regret and some other emotion that he couldn't identify.

"I might have forgotten what sunlight felt like...or what it was like to be happy...but I never forgot this place. Or you." She met his eyes fiercely, and he looked away quickly. "Where's my picture, Peter?"

He looked up, startled. "What picture?" But she merely looked at him,her vaguely annoyed expression speaking volumes. "It's...somewhere."

"Somewhere," she repeated blankly. "You went to all that trouble to steal it off my desk to put it 'somewhere.' Yeah, forgive me if I don't quite believe you."

"It's on the Jolly Roger."

Even the many birds that sat in the trees around them ceased their bright chirping. Liz froze, her hands falling uselessly to her sides. The sky overhead darkened a little and Peter glanced up, confused. A light but strong breeze filtered through the dense trees, throwing Liz's hair up around her face in a wild dance.

His momentary distraction by the sky gave Liz the opening she needed. Her Peter had been entirely too guarded around her and she threw herself at him, knocking them into the door of the hut and sending them to the floor, Liz straddling Peter about the waist. "Tell me it isn't true..." she whispered into his chest.

"What isn't true?" he asked, the blood pounding in his ears.

Her fingers tightened in the leaves and linen of his shirt. "That you become...him. Hook." Peter froze even more beneath her and she pulled away. "It is, isn't it! That's why you're aging! I knew it. I told the reporter that, and I knew it! I knew it!"

He pulled her up and looked at her. "How would you know something like that?"

Liz's eyes darkened beyond recognition and the trees outside snapped in the gale winds that swirled around the cabin. She sat up and rolled up the sleeves of her muslin shirt very slowly and deliberately. She turned her arms face up, angling them towards his wide eyes.

Deep score marks of scars ran parallel with each other. He turned his horrified gaze from her arms to her eyes. "When you've been as close to death as I have been," she said, her voice cold, "you learn things about yourself and others that you wish you'd never learned." She let her arms fall back to her sides. "Just before I flat lined..." she chuckled humorlessly, "I saw this weird picture in my head. It was Hook, the Hook who we fought together as children; he was holding this small picture of a girl with black hair and a blue shirt. He let it go into the wind off the Jolly Roger. Then I saw you doing the same thing only with the picture of me."

"You...there are secrets here that even I don't know, Liz..." he whispered, his eyes still on her scarred forearms. He lifted them gently, placing tender kisses along each scar from elbow to wrist. "How did I not see these, before?"

She pulled her arms away, standing in a fluid motion. "You've only ever seen what you wanted to see, Peter." The wind began to die down and the sun began to peek out from behind the dark moody clouds. "Why did you bring me here?" she asked, her voice barely even a whisper.

"Because..." Peter said, his throat dry, "I...wanted...to see you again." Her face remained unyielding and he swallowed. "I missed you," he said honestly. "The picture wasn't enough anymore."

The sun came out with her smile. "Come on Peter. Let's spend what little time I have here with each other. Show me the places I've forgotten.

* * *

Liz was eternally surprised when Peter offered her his hand and walked with her side by side, hand in hand through the never ending tropics of Never Land. Their joined limbs swung gently between them as he led her through the greenness to the sound of the ocean crashing in the distance. "I thought you might like an open space," he said suddenly, startling her from her thoughts. "After being in that room..." 

She grinned, but there was a melancholy edge to it that took his breath away. "You thought right," she said, squeezing his hand once. "Play with me," she whispered to him, "and I'll tell you a story."

Instead he pulled her close and launched them into the air, her shriek echoing in his ears. He grinned at her unrepentant, and set her lightly on the shore. "Sorry," he said insincerely. "Didn't mean to scare you."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Liar," she stated, and Liz pushed him into the water and he landed with a yelp getting a face full of ocean water.

Instead of replying, he pulled her down, and she slid onto his lap where she froze, unsure. "Peter?" she asked softly.

He only hugged her closer. "I really did miss you," he said to her. She nodded against his chest and he lifted her right forearm looking at the mass of scars and scratches. He lifted it to his lips, gently kissing each of Liz's damning scars.

"Peter…what are you doing?" she whispered, trying to pull away unsuccessfully. Liz gasped, as Peter's lips glided over each scar, the skin smoothed and healed, the ridged flesh turning pink and melting back into her arm.

"Fixing what I did to you," he said, suddenly sounding much older than his face showed. Liz trained her grey eyes on his blue ones and he smiled reassuringly at her as the ocean frothed and foamed around their inert bodies.

"I did this to me," she said when he looked at her again, her arms healed and limp by her sides. "Thank you though…" she rubbed her hands over her skin. "Even if I don't deserve it."

As a response she got a face full of sand. She shook it off her, staring in shock at Peter who grinned at her. Liz didn't think twice about shoving him face first into the surf before leaping to her feet and taking off down the beach.

He gave amiable chase, knowing that he could over power the girl easily if he tried. Liz suddenly faltered and went down hard into the sand, and he raced over to her, shouting her name. When Peter reached her, she unapologetically pulled him back down into the waves, straddling his lap.

They sat there for more time than Peter had meant to waste, the warm ocean curling around their bodies, as they held each other. The sun set on them, the fantastic reds, oranges and pinks painting them an odd assortment of colors, Liz's hair into gold and Peter's eyes to violet.

She curled up in Peter's arms, snuggling contentedly into the warmth of his broad chest. Liz pressed a happy kiss to collarbone feeling his shudder through his shirt. The relentless beat of his heart lulled her to sleep, with Peter's voice echoing in her ears. She didn't know what he said, and she never would.

"I love you," Peter whispered in her ear when her breathing evened out. A single tear carved a line down his cheek as he rose out of the water and into the air, carrying his precious bundle. The sky opened up to accept them and when they were gone, great salty tears fell from the heavens.

Peter flew fast and sure with Liz in his arms, opening the planets and clouds before spitting them out just outside her barred window. The wall gave them no barrier and he passed through it as easily as mist. The boy laid the one girl he'd ever love down in her corner before passing a hand over her body, his touch ever so gentle, cringing when Liz murmured his name.

Her deer skin and muslin clothing melted away as if it were merely air. As it did, her white dressing gown faded back into view without prompting to cover her. He leaned forward ever so slightly and pressed his lips to hers. "This is yours," he told the sleeping girl, "and it will always be yours." He kissed her lightly again, surprised beyond measure when she sleepily kissed him back.

He left her there, fading from sight, just as the orderly came to check the rooms on his rounds. He opened the door and saw the girl sleeping peacefully for once, and if her skin was a touch cleaner than it had been at his last check, and her lips a little more swollen, he never noticed the difference.

Liz woke up on her comfortable bed, and she rolled over, cuddling into the soft pillows beside her. "Peter…" she mumbled, and her eyes fluttered open before she froze. Four nurses and two orderlies came running when Patient 45 started screaming as though she was dying.

Liz was still screaming when they arrived five minutes later.

* * *

Peter crash landed into Neverland's skies, the leaves falling away from the boy leaving him in linen's and cotton, the clothes shifting and tightening as slowly the boy became a man as he free fell through the air. He landed on his knees on the deck of the Jolly Roger, his body shuddering in small convulsions. 

"Liz!" he sobbed, his hands coming up to cover his face. In a blundering movement he staggered to his feet, making his way into the Captain's cabin, finding the picture on the desk where he'd left it. It was a younger girl, blonde hair and grey eyes, her hand resting on her chin as a water fall decorated the scenery behind her.

As he stared at the picture, Peter felt himself slowly calming, his tears vanishing as though they had never been there. He walked out on to the deck, clutching the picture tightly in one fist. He gave it one last long look, his blonde hair beginning to lengthen and darken, curling madly about his waist in dark luxurious waves.

He let go of the picture and the wind swept it away to be lost in the mist and waves. He didn't see it as it weaved its way through the air into the water, and the colors were slowly lost to the sea, leaving finally nothing but a blank white slate before even that disintegrated into memory.

Smee walked up to Captain Hook carefully, taking in his casual appearance. "Cap'n?" he said carefully and the tall man turned to face him, a confused expression his face. "Cap'n…? he asked again and the lines smoothed out.

"Smee," his precious captain said, his voice liquid scorn. "Ready the sails."

"Aye-aye, Cap'n!"

* * *

A boy screamed and fell out of his cradle, wailing for his mum who never came. He was too young to know that she lay dead in the next room, and too young to care. All he knew was his mother never came. A glowing light flew between his eyes and he slept, his voice cutting off mid-cry. 

Tinkerbell took the small boy child with her when she left the world, ignoring the wailing cries of the lost, pausing only when she heard a familiar voice, and dismissing it as unimportant. All that mattered was getting little Peter back to Neverland.

* * *

Lizabeth Greene was discharged from Asylum when she was twenty seven, all youthful innocence gone, and smile fake. At thirty she married a man who didn't love her, and at thirty one, she gave birth to a beautiful baby girl whom she named Belle. 

When Belle turned seven, Liz shut her bedroom window, forgetting for that one night that Peter Pan never has, nor never will need to use doors. Liz felt a cold chill in the middle of the night and she checked on her peacefully sleeping daughter, noticing in terror that her window was open and flapping in the sudden breeze.

She went to close it when a boy landed with an angry thud on the sill. The very image of her boy stared up at her and she gasped, jerking away from the ledge. "Peter?" she cried.

The twelve year old made a face at her, his confusion marring his otherwise perfect features. Then he asked, with youthful arrogance, "Who are you?"

The End


End file.
